


Life is a Bitch (but she's totally doable)

by Tabi_J



Category: The 100 (TV), clexa - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Clexa, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Suspense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:30:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7411268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tabi_J/pseuds/Tabi_J
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin is at a crossroads in her life. After her failed relationship with her boyfriend of three years she's trying desperately to move out of their shared house and start fresh.</p>
<p>Which is how she finds herself going to a 116 year old farmhouse with a rather cold, but extremely attractive owner who has a room for rent in the area and at a price she can actually afford. </p>
<p>Aside from the somewhat standoffish nature of it's owner, the house seems like the perfect fit to leave everything behind. Though the blond feels she makes a rough first impression on the chilly-demeanored brunette, she is pleasantly surprised that the woman accepts her terms and (somewhat grudgingly) allows her move into the spare room. </p>
<p>Everything seems to be working out for her until she notices shortly after moving in that the mysterious brunette often disappears at night and Clarke spends her first nightfall alone in the house. The blond quickly begins to realize there may be more to the deal than she originally bargained for because. Something. Isn't. Right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Week Before

**Author's Note:**

> Ok guys this is my first fiction. Ever. I have no beta so I apologize for any mistakes (I'm open to volunteers) :P
> 
> Couple disclaimers: 
> 
> 1) The title is a line from the song Bye Bye Symphony by Foxy Shazam
> 
> 2) I am actually writing this fic as a fun way to keep record of things that are actually happening in my life. (Unfortunately with the exception of all things Lexa and of course some fiction mixed in to accomodate the story). I just moved into a 116 year old farmhouse and I think it might be haunted. (Seriously, guys I'm a little freaked).Obvously I'm borrowing characters from the 100 (mostly Clarke and Lexa I think). 
> 
> 3) Most of this fic takes place in America. I refer to Clarke's past in Australia a couple times briefly but know nothing about life in Australia so if I make mistakes my apologies to the Aussies ;)
> 
> The first chapter and a half is a little heavy but it's just to setup where Clarke is coming from and I promise if you bear with me it gets better. This fic is mostly for funsies anyways, so there will be humor with serious moments, awkwardness, angst, fluff, and suspense to look forward to ahead! Hope you enjoy. :) PS working on figuring out the spacing and stuff to make it more readable. I promise to work on this!

 

Breaking up is a bitch.

Especially while listening to your ex have phone sex with his newest love interest in the room adjacent. Clarke groans and rolls over stiffly, the cheap ikea mattresses accompanying the pullout daybed exacerbating the kinks that have been ever growing in her back and neck. It’s only been two weeks since the official break up. You shared a house for a whopping two years.

_Well, not quite even that._

She rolls her head back into the covers and shakes her head.

And it just figures. Because she was such a commitment-phobe before meeting him, preferring to travel and be independent rather than imagine a cookie-cutter, settled-down, home-owning version of herself. She fought it, initially. The nausea-inducing domestication of it all enough to delay the inevitable. Yet in the end, she fell for it. The warm brown eyes that seemed warmer when they looked into hers. The carefree smile and gentle laughs they shared together. The promises of forever. Late night whispers of “ _You’re my person_ ” and “ _I love you’s_ ”.

_You_ fell _for it._

Her stomach clenches and she’s unable to stop the cringe that washes through her body, resulting in a physical grimace of self-loathing. How did it come to this? How did she allow one individual, one man- (No, boy. He’s just an immature, overgrown fuckboy still pathetically attempting to live out his frat boy fantasies)- to stop her? The unstoppable Clarke Griffin. Merrily on her way down a path to independence and freedom and the ultimate carefree lifestyle. Stopped dead in her tracks by the ultimate cliche. Being far from home had it’s small mercies. Such as dodging unwanted questions after her sudden lack of movement and career advancement. The type of questions that resulted in answers like, “ _Well, I met this guy…._ ”  
She had left broken but full of hope. Promising herself, eyes to the future, a life of self-reliance.

_So, so cliche._

And just like that, all her big plans were happily flushed down the drain in exchange for the blissful ignorance of being young and in love. It all seemed worth it then, though somewhere in the back of her mind was that small voice (the one that spurred her to leave home in the first place with naught more than a smoking trail behind) that whispered mockingly in the background, _This isn’t gonna last._

Nothing does. Her plans to scrape up enough money in her savings to travel the world, find herself and (maybe one day) land back home in Australia- all scrapped.

Another round of syrupy laughter followed by low sensual murmurs escape from the adjacent room and it’s finally enough to make her push off the bed with a groan and a bitter taste in her mouth. Her stomach clenches again partly due to her poor eating habits (she fell asleep early in the evening on her daybed in the craft room, art supplies littered all around and a piece of charcoal smearing her cheek) and partly due to the sounds coming from the other room. At first, she fought this….arrangement. Her stubborn pride enough to curb her distaste for sleeping in the same room with him. _I won’t be kicked out of my own room. This is my house, too!_ But eventually it became too much and Clarke felt her ire fizzle into something weaker and smoldering.

_Dormant._ Since then, the fire in her spirit was diminished and the shine in her eyes dimmed. _That’s about right._

Now, Clarke spends most of her nights holed up in her craft room intentionally losing track of time while sketching uninspired works until she falls into fitful unconsciousness.

It’s stupid to be this upset. She knows better. Knows it wasn’t really love. Maybe she always knew. And now that her eyes are fully open to the truth she feels as though she just woke up from sleeping for the better part of the last three years. Eyes squeezed tight-shut to block out reality. Groggy, lethargic. Which is unlike her. Clarke Griffin is a realist ( _“Not a pessimist, O. There’s a difference!”_ ) Yet here she is. Prey to a trope. Forced to swallow down the bitter taste in her mouth again, she reaches for her toothbrush, helping herself to a generous amount of the minty paste to scrub away the taste. Disappointment floods through her as she thinks of the wasted time and potential she could have invested if only....

Her thoughts trail off, knowing the road they lead down is a circular one. And futile. _All for nothing._

But true to form, when reality came crashing back in she embraced it with the sick enthusiasm of a masochist in all it’s raw, burning glory. It was almost cleansing. The walls were safely erecting themselves around her heart. And she was rediscovering her independence, at least. It was easy enough to fall back into old routines. Solitary ones. That familiar feeling of being alone but “Ok with that.”

_Well, that’s something, right?_ Survival. _Yes, that’s the word._

And Clarke Griffin was well-versed in the fine art of survival. She had plenty of practice in times past. No, this wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last. She snorts past her toothbrush at the irony of taking comfort in the consistency of upheaval in her life, then frowns at the spray of toothpaste now on the mirror. She lifts the sleeved arm of her oversized t-shirt and attempts to wipe it off. She only succeeds in leaving her reflection looking blurred and indistinct.

_Small comforts,_ she reminds herself as she trots downstairs and flips the keurig machine on, listening to its jarring hum. Small comforts and a routine. A nice cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Hands around the smooth warmth of ceramic, taking the chill out of her fingertips. It’s the small things she has to focus on to get through these kinds of times. “Small happinesses” her mother would call them. She learned a lot about small happinesses after her father died.

_No. Not going there. Not today. Today, I’ve got shit to do._ The small pep talk puts her back a little straighter and she unconsciously sets her jaw in a small tilt of determination. The barest spark of her former self...but it’s a start.

She shakes the darkness that had begun to pull at her lungs like a black hole, sucking a void in her chest while simultaneously pushing aside the guilt for not having called her mother for way too long (She really needs to call her. Today). The now-filled coffee cup presses into her palms and she inhales the bitter steam greedily.

Who was she kidding? She’ll travel again, sure. But return home? Not permanently. Never permanently. Too many memories tainted with pain now. It hurts to feel that way. Like she needs to block out once-sweet memories in the name of self-preservation. Every favourite restaurant, every secret hideaway, every familiar nook, everything was tainted by pain. Every picture in her mind now is incomplete when she thinks of the piece that’s missing. And she did the only thing she knew in order to heal herself.

She left. But that’s where she is now. Acceptance is the first and most important step to moving forward. _And away._ Except, acceptance has started to taste a lot like resignation these days.

She knows her friends and family tried to be understanding. Tried not to be hurt by the distance she intentionally put between them, both emotionally and physically. She wonders if they hold it against her somewhere deep inside, maybe thinking she took the easy way out. Things got tough and Clarke made a quick exit stage right. But it wasn’t like that. Not for her, at least. It was easy to know what she had to do. Nothing was easy about doing it.

A bark of rough laughter filters down from upstairs and it spurs her on to her purpose for the day, flipping open her white chromebook (a gift Finn had gotten her only the Christmas before). Bringing up the browser, she opens several tabs and begins typing various apartment shopping websites into each one. Footsteps approach the top of the staircase and a rushed “...love you too, babe” is audible before the telltale beep of a phone call ending. A wry smile twists at Clarke’s lips. _That’s my cue._

Time to leave. Again.


	2. The Day Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With one foot in her past and the other in the future, Clarke is recalling how she got to where she is now while preparing for a meeting with a certain enigmatic brunette that will change her life and propel her into her future. 
> 
> Also, Clarke gets nervous for her meeting and can't quite put a finger on why since she has never met this girl before and has no reason for her usual confidence to fail her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit more backstory but I promise it picks up after this! There's a Lexa at the end of that tunnel!

Grad school is a bitch. Especially when juggling a fresh breakup, an obnoxious ex, and the unending joys that accompany the moving process.

First, you gotta have the ‘want-to’. Blond hair falls forward in loose curls around her face as Clarke sighs at her tired reflection in the mirror. _Increasingly difficult these days._

Her job is full-time and draining. Floor nurse at a psychiatric hospital on 12-hour rotating shifts. That’s if she doesn’t get mandated to stay for a full 16 hours due to short staffing (they are always short-staffed). At the end of the day she drags her tired bones into the obligatory shower to scrub off the stench of crazy (Hers, at that point. Not the patients’.) Then, with the absolute zero amount of energy she possesses in the evenings, she attempts to crack open a book and read the most tedious material written in the dryest format possible: theory, management styles, worldview- stuff she learned in undergrad and so on. Just more of it and in more boring detail. As if she thought it possible.

The other thing she needs to be in graduate school is organized. Another challenge evidenced by the overdue charges on almost all her bills of late. Recycling piles up, dirty laundry overflows from her basket and the clean clothes she does have remain unfolded and scattered with the other clutter hanging off and around the bed. When she sits and thinks about it (rather than study, any topic can be amusing) she’s not sure why she’s like this. She knows she feels calmer and more prepared with organization but getting there just doesn’t seem to happen. (“It’s organized chaos” she used to tell her mom when she would huff disapprovingly from the bedroom door back in the day. But it really wasn’t. It was just chaos. Like Clarke most of the time.)

She started small in the medical field, unsure it was the right choice, despite her mother’s urgings to follow in her footsteps and take the plunge straight into med school. (“Being creatively talented, Clarke, is not mutually exclusive to being a starving artist with no reputation. You can have both, you just have to work for it.” And her mother’s favourite worn-out mantra “Art is a hobby, Clarke, not a living.”) She meant well. Clarke know this. And the starving part of artist was never something she much fancied for herself if she was being honest. Which is how she became a graduate nurse (for almost five years now), though she’s only practiced for around three or four (because _that_ happened right after graduation and she didn’t think she had it in her to pass the boards exam).

But after delaying for several months and weeks of cram study sessions, she did pass her boards. The very first time, despite the misgivings of the Dean of the nursing program. The Dean, Professor Jaha, heartily encouraged Clarke to bow out when he realized her family crises might hurt the pass rate of his program (which he had designed himself) if Clarke failed. And that wouldn’t look good on him. Clarke recalls that day like it’s seared into her mind.

 

***

 

It was the middle of her Senior year, when things were all going to shit, that she had been sat down in Prof. Jaha’s office for a mandatory ‘heart-to-heart’. An extremely plastic look of fatherly concern was forced into his features. Strangely, it didn’t suit him even though she knew he had a son whom she had befriended freshman year. Concern isn’t supposed to take so much effort. Genuinity doesn’t glint off your eyes like that, devoid of warmth and unable to land anywhere for any length of time. The whole setting felt offbeat and uncomfortable as she took the seat across from him, heart pounding, palms sweating. Her situation might have been amusing if it wasn’t all too much. It was the equivalent of being called into the principal’s office, but much, much heavier. She was struggling in her classes at this point (she was an A student before everything happened) but she was making it by the skin of her teeth. She was trying. She really was. Had she done something wrong? Was she in trouble? Clarke sank into the chair feeling very small.

He cleared his throat, slicing through the loaded silence and making her jump involuntarily.

“Now, Clarke, although I appreciate the circumstances you find yourself in I want you to hear what I have to say and consider it very seriously. As your mentor and fellow professional in this highly respected field I feel obligated to encourage you to resign from this program. If you were a responsible adult in this situation you would realize the safest thing for you and your future patients right now would be for you to... take a break. There’s no shame in it. You’re too distracted. You would still have your credits from previous courses completed. You can always come back and try again next year.”

And in the vulnerable state she was in, she had agreed. The blond had marched straight to the uni’s Student Body President at the time (President Kane) and told him of her conversation with the Dean and also her decision to resign. If not for Kane talking her down and heatedly expressing his wishes that Clarke had not been cornered alone in a room with Jaha, she wouldn’t be where she was today.

Not only was Clarke one of the handful of students who had stuck with the program and graduated but she was also one of the few who passed the Boards exam the first time while additionally moving forward with practice. She always wanted to travel and lucked out with some of her mother’s connections which got her into an opportunity to start internationally in the US. The licensure was fairly easy to transfer and it was history from there.

 

***

 

And here she is. For better or for worse. In the good ol’ US of A. Practicing nursing, working on her Nurse Practitioner in a graduate program she enrolled in last semester (when her relationship with Finn was just starting to get rocky and by some instinct she decided to invest in her career again)

...and cowering in her room to avoid said ex who was due home anytime now.

Clarke grimaces at the irony of the regression. She used to feel proud of the strides she had made despite everyone’s doubts during her struggles and depression. Not that people didn’t like her. Most did, with few exceptions. The blond was warm-hearted and compassionate. Friendly with everyone she met. Charming, even. But she could be...brash in her decisions. Some thought it admirable, others thought she was too scattered and needed to settle down. Regardless, Clarke had always been her own person. Life and sheer stubbornness propelled her forward into the series of events that led her here. Now, if only she could believe there was a reason for it all beyond her own wanderlust and brash nature. She once thought meeting Finn was that reason. The hopeless romantic in her fought the cynicism of her inner realist, hoping to believe in some drabble involving “fate” and “soulmates”.

She shakes her head of these thoughts to clear her mind for the task at hand. Pulling on her favorite pair of jeans and a loose button up, she wonders to herself what type of clothing she should wear to the type of meeting she is about to have. Oddly nervous, she grabs her keys and wallet off the counter before heading towards her car, a jittery hope stilting her steps.

She glances at her phone for the third time in the last two minutes. She’s running late. _It’s not like this is an interview…_

Well, in a sense, that’s exactly what it was. She had made inquiries to several different people advertising rooms for rent in the area and had yet to hear back from most of them. But she had held out hope for one house in particular, tucked away in a piece of country just far enough but not so far that the drive to work would be too much. There was only one picture on the site of the house itself and it was from the outside. Disappointed and mildly concerned at the lack of indoor pictures, Clarke had hinted in her contact with the owner at coming to see the house. After some measure of hesitance on the owner’s part and insistent coaxing on Clarke’s part, the owner relented, even going as far as setting a date and time and texting the address to Clarke’s phone.

It was an old farmhouse built on 20 acres of land with a pleasant spread of green all around. The woman who lived there was young and around Clarke’s age. She was utilizing the acreage to sustain her own small hobby farm which, from what Clarke could tell from her description of the land, included a couple horses and some small farm animals such as chicken/hens. The woman’s self-description on the web site stated that despite her age she enjoyed the quiet, didn’t party much and mostly kept to herself. In her “looking for” description, the woman had indicated she wished her renter to “maintain the same values”. Whatever that meant. This sounded ideal to Clarke as she would need quiet time to study and wasn’t looking for a party animal to deal with.

So...Perfect housemate, perfect house?

Well, that remained to be seen. Clarke’s sure the house can hardly be described as perfect by modern day standards. It will be old. Probably smell old. And that means remodeling and repair work. But none of that is her responsibility as she will only be renting the spare room. As long as it’s livable, it will be better than the suffocating confines of her once-cheerful craft room. The memories crowding in her shared house with Finn are beginning to become just as unbearable as the ones she left behind so many years ago and she is eager to be free of them. And Finn is eager to be free of her so he can continue being a douchebag and do douchey things more freely...

_Ok, keep it together, Griffin. Don’t let him affect you like that. He’s not worth it. Change is coming. And this is the first step…._

Clarke has just covered a pleasant 45 minute drive in the country, the last two roads of which were the standard pothole-riddled dirt paths typical of a country scene, when she pulls out of an S-curve to an immediate view of a charming, though worn-down white barn. She slows the car to a crawl. She leans over the wheel, squinting for an address before realizing the numbers are painted in black script neatly down one of the wooden planks of the barn door.

_Yup, this is it._

Clarke allows herself a small smile of satisfaction. It quickly fades as she nervously pulls into the drive, the nerves this time are more due to the fact that the driveway is sticking out of a curve in the road and she can’t see whether or not oncoming traffic will t-bone her in the second it takes to cross into the driveway. When she makes it unscathed, her nerves channel themselves back into the imminent meeting. Sure, the woman offered to let Clarke come look at the inside of the house to evaluate whether it was a proper fit for her, but the blond can’t shake the feeling she will be equally evaluated as well.

The engine stalls and she sits in the car, hands on the steering wheel. Looking around at the vast outdoors surrounding her, she wonders if the woman sees her already and if she will approach first. Suddenly feeling inexplicably insecure and exposed, Clarke busies herself with making sure her phone is in her purse and triple checks that the address is right and…. _Grow a pair and get out of the car, Griffin! This isn’t even a date!_

Somewhat shaken by her uncharacteristic lack of confidence (since when is a Griffin so easily intimidated?), she forces herself out of the car. _Alright, time to bring out that Griffin charm_ , she once again silently coaches herself. Throwing off her previous misapprehensions, she takes a step forward towards the porch and plasters a bright smile on her face….which falters so quickly it’s almost comical the way it twists into a frown, halting her step so quickly she almost trips. Clarke’s paranoid side hopes the woman isn’t watching her from a window somewhere inside, evaluating her ineptness already at simply approaching the door. But that’s the problem.

_...which door?_ Clarke stands facing a wrap around porch with equally accessible doors on both sides of the house. There’s no indication which door is the main entrance and she’s already irritated with herself that this little blip on the radar has her self-doubt blazing again. What if she picks the wrong one and the woman doesn’t even hear the knock? What if Clarke is left standing there while the woman waits expectantly for her to figure it out and come around to the other side? She is already late and doesn’t want to make an even worse impression by immediately looking stupid in front of the owner. _You really need to get a grip. Ugh. Just pick a damn door!_ She straightens her back and marches pseudo-confidently up to the chosen door ( _The street-facing door, of course it’s the right one. There is no ‘right’ one. It’s a door!_ ) She argues with herself as she approaches. She raises her hand to knock on the door but hesitates once more. Relief washes over Clarke as she notices a doorbell by the latch, effectively interrupting her inner mental debate of the proper knock volume and length of which she was sure to torture herself over for at least another awkward minute of indecisiveness. _Good. Can’t go wrong with a doorbell._ It’s sad how pleased she feels over this small victory as she punches her finger into the button.

And the victory is pathetically short-lived.

The doorbell seems to have a transforming effect on the peace of the previously silent house. From behind the door, she hears a chorus of barks and grunts and scuffles for a good thirty seconds before the door is choppily wrenched open. The upper half of a body leans out to greet her over an obstruction on the floor but is cut short before abruptly disappearing back inside. Clarke doesn’t get a good look at the owner, it was merely a brief flash of chestnut hair and flailing limbs. Clarke waits and listens, unsure of what to make of it all. Another unamused grunt, more scraping sounds, and a muffled curse followed by what sounded dangerously like "...didn't even know I HAD a doorbell." Finally, the door opens further allowing Clarke access and, after a pause, she steps in uncertainly.

The blond turns to greet the owner, attempting to reinstate the now less-than bright smile (which is tiring out) for the third time that day. And it instantly falls yet again as she can’t help but look down at the shoe rack, tool box, vacuum cleaner and dog dishes that have all been obviously and hastily shoved aside in order to grant her access. _Great._ Apparently, there really _was_ a wrong door. And, of course, Clarke had chosen it.

The blond deflates further as her gaze rises to the shaft of light falling in from the door across the room. The main door hangs open invitingly (mockingly) with only the screen door shut to keep out the pests. If she had only approached the other door first she would have clearly seen it was already half open in preparation for her arrival. _But no, Griffin. You had to pick the wrong door._ Her silent self-reprimands are cut short as she suddenly meets the piercingly green gaze of the tenant who is giving the blond a somewhat odd look of... _exasperation?_ Or maybe she’s imagining things because the brunette’s still panting slightly from the exertion of rearranging half the room to accommodate her difficult guest.

_Maybe that’s all it is_ , the blond hopes silently.

“Clarke Griffin, I presume?” And, yeah, there’s definitely an edge of exasperation in her voice.

Clarke nods sheepishly, as if the other woman had just wrenched from her some sordid confession. The brunette nods sharply once in return and her gaze flicks briefly up and down the other girl as though seriously weighing the odds that Clarke Griffin may be more trouble than she’s worth in rent. When her emerald gaze comes back to eye level, Clarke instantly wishes it hadn’t. Despite the deep verdant hue of the orbs now focused on her, the gaze is chilling and feels laced with judgement. After finishing what appears to be some inner debate (Clarke feels certain was about her and not at all flattering) the brunette breaks the growing silence with a chopped, “Alexandria Woods.” Effectively ending introductions.

Though there’s some amount of tension in the air, Clarke can’t help but notice that the low yet feminine voice isn’t exactly off-putting despite the irritation colouring it’s timbre. It makes her seem somehow regal, no.... _commanding._  And the slight flush to her cheeks isn’t hurting her complexion. In fact, it accentuates her cheekbones and- wow, she has nice bone structure all the way down to her jawline-

“Are you going to come in or are you planning on camping in my doorway?” This time there’s no disguising the heated annoyance in her tone as she clips out the words.

_Well, off to a great start, Griffin._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think, guys! :) Comments are appreciated.


	3. Move-in Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke finishes her tour of the house with Alexandria as her guide. Lots of tension ensues.
> 
> Determined to deny the frustrating brunette (and her obvious attraction to her of which she is in denial) Clarke leaves the house with the resolution to find somewhere else to live.
> 
> However, when she gets back home something happens to force her hand and Clarke finds herself making a brash decision.

Moving is a bitch. First, you have to clean and organize if you really want to do it properly and make things easier down the road. Then there’s the endless boxes. The heavy furniture. The books (God! All the books!) and just as you think that covers it, you realize you have a tv mount to take down, a bed to disassemble and reassemble, kitchenware to separate etc. etc.

Clarke has time for none of this.

Multiple cardboard boxes of varying shapes and sizes litter Clarke’s floor. A roll of packing tape loaded into a roller sits uselessly nearby the pile of flat cardboard. No boxes have been packed. Hell, they haven’t even been made into boxes yet. And she’s  _exhausted._

Clarke sits on her daybed and huffs at the sight before her, mind racing through her options right now.

She thinks back to her meeting with the brunette the day before. A small frown creases her forehead as Clarke goes over the details in her mind again and tries to make sense of it all.

 

***

After tripping her way into the brunette’s dining room, the girl had offered to give her a tour of the house. Grasping at the normalcy of such a gesture, Clarke had nodded enthusiastically and immediately fell in step behind as the other girl spun to lead her.

While now facing her back, the blond couldn’t help but take mental note of how upright the girl held herself. Her posture was perfect. Almost rigid. She wondered how someone managed to have such good posture all the time. Unbidden, a mental image of a younger, miniature brunette popped into her mind, sitting at her school desk with equally proper alignment as the woman before her now. It seemed oddly fitting.

“...as you’ve already seen the dining room- Clarke?” The blonde’s head snapped to attention. Now her cheeks were the ones flushed. Ten seconds into the tour and Clarke had been caught daydreaming and not listening to what the brunette had just said.

“Yes! I was listening!”  _Smooth._

It’s clear the brunette doesn’t buy it. But rather than saying anything further about it she instead fixes the blonde with that steely green gaze.

“I was just _saying_ ", the way she emphasized the word made her message clear to Clarke. If she was speaking, Clarke was to be listening. “The kitchen is going to be updated soon and if you should choose to live here you would have access to utilize its features as you please.”

The woman might not have said anything directly but- _damn_. If that wasn’t a reprimand in her tone, Clarke didn’t know what was. How could she make such harmless words sound like a scolding?

Clarke tilted her head up in a self-conscious gesture when her eyes catch something propped in the corner of the entryway towards the front of the kitchen.

A shotgun. A _fucking_  shotgun.

Instinctively, Clarke stilled, her breath hitched in her throat and her eyes widened on the unexpected object. Her reaction couldn’t have been missed by the brunette as her eyes had never left her. Clarke’s gaze was subconsciously pulled back to the dining room where a wooden gun rack was mounted on the wall. It was evident in the way the gun was leaning by the door that it was recently moved to that position from its home on the mount. Like she was waiting for something.

_Or some_ one.

Clarke’s neck snapped back to face the brunette before her. She didn’t even try to reign in the unspoken accusation she could feel pouring from her gaze. She hoped the girl across from her could feel it, too. She would make her feel it. The blond seared her with as withering a look as she could manage, demanding an explanation with her eyes rather than deigning to put it to words.

The other girl stilled her movements as well and something glinted in her eyes.

_Oh, yeah. She feels it._ Clarke felt some satisfaction that the girl had obviously comprehended her meaning and reacted to her heated gaze.

But it was cut short as the other girls posture straightened impossibly further, her spine seeming to lengthen as she held herself perfectly erect, shoulders pushed back, hands circling around to clasp behind her own back. In answer to Clarke’s demand she further set her jaw and displayed her own defiant head tilt with all the superiority of a queen. She offered no explanation or defense. In fact, her body language and stance indicated she clearly thought she needed none and was simply daring the blonde to say otherwise.

Clarke seethed. _Who does this girl think she is?_

They stood there faced off, just like that for God knows how long. Neither blinking. If anyone had walked in on the two girls in that moment they may have thought them wax statues. Or perhaps engaged in some strange staring contest that neither was about to win.

Just as Clarke was certain this stalemate would last forever and they would never move again, a muffled _thud_  came from somewhere below their feet. The surprise of it in the thick silence caused Clarke to jolt and break eye contact. Though the other girl had maintained her steady stare, the blonde could swear she saw her eyes widen almost imperceptibly for a fraction of a second.

“What was that?” The blonde’s gaze travelled to the two doors opposite the kitchen. _Did that come from the basement?_

“Oh, I had to put the dogs away to keep them calm after you rang the bell. They aren’t used to visitors or doorbells.” The brunette offers as explanation (almost too readily after the stand-off you just engaged in.)

And it’s like a switch had been flipped because suddenly she’s back in ‘host’ mode, “Would you like to finish the tour?” she asks pleasantly.

Feeling somewhat disoriented by the rapid change in mood, the blonde manages to nod absently.

“Good.” The other woman moves forward once again, back to Clarke. “Follow me.”

And there it is again. That irritatingly bossy tone that makes every word a command.

Before Clarke can think of a snarky comment, however, the brunette is narrating their movement through the house and the blond falls into step behind as though it were the natural order of things.

“This is the living room,” she indicates the adjacent room they had just stepped in.

It’s fairly bare. But she does notice the couch and how it has an unnecessary amount of blankets draped over it. And a pillow. _Does she sleep down here?_ Across the room she see the mini TV stand and flat screen propped on top and it surprises her. This strict, standoffish woman did not strike her as the type to sit in front of the TV mindlessly watching late night shows until sleep claimed her. She finds herself grudgingly intrigued by the enigma of the woman standing before her and begins to wonder what her likes and dislikes are. She tries to imagine the girl curled up on the couch lazily, blankets mussed, hair mussed, remote control loosely in hand flipping through channels like a normal-

“...so please refrain from going in there. Anywhere else, you are free to access.”  _Shit._

Clarke jumps a little as she realizes she wasn’t listening again and feels the guilt creep into her face in the form of a blush.

Luckily, the other woman is too preoccupied with moving past her to open a door she hadn’t noticed. It was located to the side of the TV, closest to kitchen/dining room area so her back had been angled towards it when she walked in. The blonde expects it to be a closet door and finds herself surprised once again to see a set of stairs that grants access to the second level of the house. _Well, they had to be somewhere._

As they climb the stairs, Clarke feels the temperature rise what feels to be at least 20 degrees warmer. It’s a hot day and although the downstairs was fairly cool the upstairs is anything but. She grimaces to herself knowing this is where her room will be located. This was definitely one of the downsides to living in an old house. Ventilation sucks.

Reaching the top, they round the staircase in order to head back to the opposite side of the house along a shortened hallway. On the left Clarke passes a small room with no door that simply seems to be for storage. As they approach the end of the hall, she sees a room with the door nudged half open.

When they reach it, the other girl grabs the door and pulls it closed with a clipped “That’s my room.” She doesn’t have to tell Clarke to “refrain from entering”. The message was clear in her attitude and the abruptness with which she secured the door, effectively blocking access and view into the room. However, not before Clarke stole a glance in.

Mildly disappointed, she noted the room was basically empty except for one piece of furniture- actually, not even that. It was simply a mattress laying on the floor with sheets and nothing more. Not even a pillow. The brief glimpse she got of the walls before her view was obstructed revealed a similar blank blandness. Except- _what was that hanging above the mattress?_ Not a picture or a frame. It almost looked like…. _a necklace?_ But the door was closed and she couldn’t get a better look with the girl standing right there.

The blonde had no time to ponder the strangeness of it as she was already being led into what was to be her room. It wasn’t bad, except for the obnoxious purple staining the walls. The space was sufficient, not large but not too small. The closet had a door and though it was small it was adequate for her needs. She didn’t need fancy. ‘Fancy’ really wasn’t her aesthetic.

What Clarke immediately liked most about the room, however, was the two windows, one on each of the outer facing walls. They both let in plenty of light and looked out onto greenery. _Perfect._ The blonde moved forward towards one of the windows and gazed out at the view, allowing a small smile to grace her lips. _This. This is my aesthetic._

It took a moment for the blonde to realize the other girl was staring at her as though waiting for a response. Briefly, Clarke’s heart skipped a beat in panic that she had missed something and the woman was about to scold her again for her poor attention span. _She’s going to think I’m so spacey..._

But that must not have been the case because in the next beat the brunette continued casually, “I know the walls are... loud. That’s why I’d chosen not to post pictures of the room yet. I fully intend to paint them a less offensive color...if you like.”

The blonde acknowledged the words with a nod. It almost felt like a peace offering.

They returned back downstairs and as Clarke jostles down the uneven steps she is reminded of a very important room she had yet to acquaint herself with.

“Is there a bathroom? Or should I go dig my own hole in the backyard?” _Ugh, humor?_ Clarke mentally face-palms at her lame attempt at a joke, which she’s sure the brunette won’t appreciate. Honestly, the blonde can hardly remember the last time she even felt like making a joke. Maybe the stress of the last few months had worn her down more than she realized.

If the brunette is annoyed, it doesn’t show.

“Oh, right.” the soft, airy tone in the woman’s response made her seem lost in thought. “This way.”

The brunette leads her back towards the kitchen but turns right into a small alcove. Clarke recognizes the two doors she had noticed from before when they’d had their stare-off in the kitchen.

“It’s this one on the left. It needs work but restoring the bathroom is my priority, so don’t worry.” She rushed to add the last part as though she was really worried this would discourage the blonde from living here. _Isn’t doing much else to convince me to stay_ , the blonde thinks to herself as she enters the bathroom.

“Alright, thanks,” she throws over her shoulder before turning to close the door behind her. She looks around. Old tub with an old showerhead. _No surprise._ Some of the trim and flooring is torn up and pieces lay on the back of the toilet with nails sticking out at dangerous angles. _Nice._ But then her attention is directed upwards as light pours into the room. She looks for the source as no windows grace the walls. When she realizes the angle of the light is coming from directly above she tilts her gaze further upwards. She squints into an old, clouded skylight set in the slanted ceiling. It’s a different place for a skylight but it increases the sense of privacy while allowing the natural sunlight to brighten the room. _Not like anyone will be looking in from up there, at least._

As Clarke leaves the bathroom she finds herself facing the other door that has remained, up to this point, a mystery.

“Is that the basement?”

From across the room the brunette looks up from the mail she was sorting on the kitchen counter.

“...Yes. Do you need to see it?”

The blonde gets the distinct feeling she’s hoping she will say no.

“The laundry’s down there, right?” The other girl nods to her. “I would like to see it.”

The woman hesitates ever so slightly before setting the mail back down on the counter and nodding once resolutely.

“Of course.”

Clarke steps back and allows the brunette to lead. She opens the door into darkness but quickly flips an unseen switch that fills the lower level with light. As she descends the stairs her posture is the most relaxed she has seen since they met. Almost casual.

At the bottom of the steps, Clarke scans the room. It’s spacious and the floor is concrete and not dirt which is an immediate plus. Random junk lines the walls, typical of a basement- paint cans, tools, old boxes. The main area is fairly clutter-free, however. Off to the right side, a project of sorts is in progress. Wood pieces of varying lengths are cut and laying together on their sides. What looks to be a half finished chest sits below a makeshift work table. The outside of the chest is finished to a smooth texture and painted a lovely verdant hue.

The woman offers nothing when Clarke appraises the chest and glances back at her. She feels a pang of disappointment for some reason but remains silent, letting it go. Soon after, however, the blonde can’t help the small prick of irritation at how damn secretive this girls is over every little damn thing. Choosing not to dwell on it, she rounds to the other side of the basement and finds what she was looking for. An old, top-loading agitator-style washer sits against the back wall in the nook beside the stairs. The dryer is slightly closer, pressed up against the adjacent wall. An old-style wash basin complete with rusty faucets and knobs takes up the rest of the back wall. It’s huge. And ancient. But everything seems to be functionable and that’s all Clarke really cares about.

“Satisfied?”

The blonde’s eyes dart back to the woman’s green ones and she allows her gaze to narrow slightly. _She has no reason to be irritated. She agreed to the tour and this is an important part of the house, of course I would want to see it!_

But if the brunette was feeling irritation her stoicism once again doesn’t allow it to show any further. Instead she turns and promptly heads back up the stairs, indicating the tour is over and Clarke should follow.

Once back on the main level the woman walks the blonde to the front door and turns to her.

“No pressure but the sooner you make your decision the better as I have a business trip coming up next week and would like to have my affairs settled here before I leave.”

“No offense, but that’s kind of the definition of ‘pressure’.” Clarke returns somewhat haughtily, unsure of why she’s goading the other girl. Other than the condescending tones layering their initial conversation the girl was an uncrackable stoic mask of togetherness. And for some reason she can’t name, it bothered the blonde to no end. She wanted to put a crack in that mask, see the girl underneath. _Just get a rise out of her._

Once again, rather than answer with words, the brunette keeps her silence in the face of Clarke’s challenge. But what Clarke wasn’t expecting was for the dark-haired girl to suddenly move towards her. She didn’t realize just how close in proximity they already were to one another until the woman was moving unexpectedly forward, drawing her closer. Clarke’s heart rate sped up in alarm ( _yes, that’s all it was_ ) as she stumbled a step back in surprise, entirely caught of guard and unsure of the girl’s intentions. As the girl raises her hand up to shoulder-level, Clarke briefly thinks the girl might be about to grab at her and she took another stumbling step back until she was falling against the door.

But the brunette’s reach sweeps just past her shoulder, brushing her lightly, for something just beyond in the corner. Realization dawns on Clarke of what’s in that corner and she tenses up, a look of shock seizing her features as the woman pulls the gun forward…

...and turns to put it back up on it’s rack. Just as the brunette angled her body away, however, her eyes seemed to stick to Clarke’s facial expression. Though the blonde couldn’t be certain, as fleeting as it was, she’d swear the edges of the brunette’s mouth twitched upwards for a fraction of a second and- _was that a smirk?_

An unexplainable feeling curled in her lower stomach and the blonde let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. _Well, that little... There’s no way I’d- In this house with-_

Even in her own mind, Clarke was spluttering, still reeling. From what exactly, she wasn’t entirely sure.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the brunette speaking again, her expression serious now. And this time Clarke’s listening.

“I’m not a monster, Clarke. The area is fairly quiet but there have been reports of break-ins recently. If someone were to attack me or try to force entry into my home, I would defend myself. I promise you that should you choose to stay here with me, you would be safe.”

It takes a moment for Clarke to piece together exactly what she is saying. Did she miss something? Was she overthinking the girl’s words? Or did this girl just offer to _protect_ her if the need arose?

She was definitely reading too much into the statement. Right?

The blonde swallowed, suddenly self-conscious for a reason she can’t quite name. It occurs to her suddenly what kind of position she unwittingly put the brunette before her in when she asked to see the house. No picture, no proof she wasn’t some creep coming to murder her or worse. Out here in the country with no one else around. She had given her address to a complete stranger. Invited them into her home. It didn’t strike Clarke as the type of thing the guarded girl would typically do willingly. She begins to feel guilt set in, recalling how pushy she had been in getting the girl to agree to this meeting.

_Would have had to happen sooner or later._ She reminds herself to feel better. _But not necessarily in her home. Her sanctuary. All alone._

Why _had_ the brunette agreed? Was she really that desperate for a housemate? Certainly couldn’t be for the companionship. Rent, maybe?

“Right, I’ll let you know.”

The brunette nods at her from where she stands in the middle of the kitchen as the blonde turns to walk out the door. As the door swings open, two small dogs she hadn’t noticed dart out from where they rested on the couch and start to bark at the novelty of the new noise. Something about it seems off and the reason slowly clicks in Clarke’s mind. She’s halfway across the porch when she twists back towards the door.

“I thought you said you put the dogs-” her words are cut off as the door is already swinging closed and she hears the _snick_ of the lock securing.

_Whatever._ Irritations flashes through her chest once again. _There are other places, less complicated owners._ Clarke most definitely would not be living here with this insufferable brunette.

 

***

Yet on the drive home, Clarke finds her mind wandering back to the stoic woman. She begins to make a mental list of what she had learned about the enigmatic brunette based off her impressions of her so far.  _Stoic. Cold. Bitchy (but beautiful). And…..chivalrous?_

Clarke shakes her head, scolding herself for her errant thoughts. Where was this coming from? She has to stop this. _Doesn’t matter what she is or isn’t. I’m not living there. She’d drive me insane._ The blonde grips the steering wheel as if to tighten her resolve. Maker herself believe she means it.

There was that really nice apartment twenty minutes from work she could look back into. The renters hadn’t gotten back to her but she still had time. _Yes, that’s what I would do. That’s what any sane person would do,_ she reassures herself, cranking up the radio and singing along to her favorite Queen song.

Twenty minutes later, Clarke is pulling into her drive. Home. _But not for long._ A familiar grimace settles back onto her features at the thought. She hadn’t realized her mood had slightly elevated since that morning (for whatever reason) until she felt it plummet again.

Sighing, she grabs her purse off the passenger seat and heads in the door-

-and smacks right into her. _Her?_ She looks up and meets the guilt-shifty eyes of her ex as he begins to stutter.

“C-Clarke! I...I thought you were going into work. It wasn’t- she isn’t- We were just- I was going to ask you first! I wanted to have her up for the holiday weekend and I was going to _ask_ but-”

The dirty blonde-haired girl standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Clarke begins to shift uncomfortably and pipes up “I’m gonna go now.” And Clarke can only glare in hurt shock between the two of them. It wasn’t a mystery that Finn was seeing someone else. But they had agreed not to do this. No one at the house. Not until they could sell it and move on to separate living arrangements. Everything personal was to be done outside these walls. This was _their_ house. _Her_ goddamn bed.

A rushed, “I’ll call you later, ok honey?” and the woman was out the door in a flash.

She knows she shouldn’t be surprised or even feel hurt anymore. But she does. She thought he would at least honor the agreement out of respect for what they had been to each other, even if it was over. After all, it had been him who thought to put the rule in place when he left town a couple weeks ago. To make sure Clarke didn’t bring anyone home for herself. _And the bastard knew I wouldn’t break my word._

Suddenly the hurt turns to boiling in her chest and she can’t see straight.

“Clarke,” he tries. But she doesn’t let him. She can’t. Any excuse he has to offer would just make it unbearable.

“Don’t!” she cuts him off sharply, her tone brooking no argument despite the crack at the end. She’s relieved when he actually listens and keeps his mouth shut.

“Just...shut...up.” She breathes out the words, breath stilting in between. She feels on the verge of a panic attack. Not good. She knows she needs to pull herself back together, but she’s losing the battle. Sure it was a shock, but since when was she this _fragile_?

Surprisingly, he seems to grasp the gravity of her plight and opts out of any further conflict. Sweeping his keys off the counter he quickly moves past her to the garage. “I’m going to run some errands.” _I’m giving you time but I’ll be back._ The words hang unspoken in the air.

Clarke listens to his car pull away before letting out a breath and closing her eyes. When she opens them again her vision is blurrier and she realizes it wasn’t just anger that was clouding her vision as she feels telltale tracks scorching down her cheeks.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. Not worth it._ But she can’t help but feel so disrespected. So betrayed.

_So small._ She feels so, so small and everything around her is too damn big. And crowding in.

But she can’t break down. Not here. Her time is limited. _He’ll be back._ She doesn’t know how much time she has but she cannot, _cannot_ , look at him again tonight.

Keys still in hand, she rushes back out to her car and tears out of the driveway.

***

Just under an hour later, Clarke is back in her craft room and has just dumped the pile of cardboard boxes on the floor before collapsing on her daybed in defeat. She has no energy all of a sudden. She feels beaten. The roll of tape she had bought and loaded onto her bright orange tape gun lay abandoned by the boxes, still flat, still unmade.

Her box-run had been reactionary. She needed to do something. Needed to make a decision. Needed to act on it. _Needed to run_ , a mocking voice whispers in the back of her mind. She ignores it.

It wasn’t the most logical step. She obviously can’t pack up all her things tonight. And she isn’t staying here overnight. So…

A car door sounds from below and Clarke’s heart sets to racing. _Surely he’s not back, yet?_ She runs to her window and looks down, expecting to see Finn’s car pulled into the driveway.

Just a neighbor. _Good._ She takes a shaky breath of relief, but the scare is enough to galvanize her into action. She frantically begins to pack an overnight bag. _Only essentials_ , she tells herself. She scrambles to throw in underwear, toothbrush, extra clothes and….

She hesitates only a moment before including her favorite pastels, a few pencils, a couple sticks of charcoal and her sketchbook. Just in case. She knows she probably won’t use it but she feels a little more complete knowing she has it near. Her back straightens a little and her breaths become a little more even. _It’s silly_ , she tries to chide herself. But she can’t bring herself to care.

Her bag is meager and includes her chromebook and charging cord so she can continue to apartment shop tonight, wherever she ends up.

_A hotel? AirBnB?_ Fairly cheap options are available but even the cheap ones are money she can’t really afford right now. Not if she’s wanting to have enough for a deposit and first month’s rent sometime soon.

A thought occurs to her. A terrible thought. One she’s not even sure she should be thinking. And she’s not sure why she wants to do it but before she can second-guess herself she grabs her checkbook, scribbles in the lines, tears one out and stuffs it in her purse. Grabbing both her bag and small suitcase she heads out the door. Once in her car she turns on her GPS and hurriedly selects ‘recent destinations’. She keeps glancing behind her, paranoid Finn will show up before she can pull out and she’ll have to see his stupid, lying face again. As the familiar address pops up on the bright screen she jams her finger onto it and throws her SUV into reverse.

***

Darkness is falling when she gets to her destination. She had stopped to treat herself to an inexpensive dinner to help calm herself down. Now as she pulls into the gravel drive, doubt claws at her stomach and she feels a little sick. Reaching into her purse she retrieves the small rectangle of paper she had previously filled out. Clutching it like a lifeline she pushes herself towards the door of the darkened house. _The_ right _door,_ she can’t help but think to herself.

The blonde doesn’t let herself hesitate this time as she raps on the door firmly and waits. Although it’s not late per se the sun is mostly gone and it is dark out. Not a likely time to receive a house call. Clarke’s just starting to wonder if the woman is home (her car is in the driveway, she took note). Another thought occurs to her and she considers the need to raise her hands and plead ‘don’t shoot’, when the door slowly swings open.

The brunette stands there looking somewhat alarmed or irritated or something Clarke doesn’t have the energy to decipher right now. Her hair is loose from it’s previous half-braid and hanging, crimped and a little wild, to one side. A beat passes and neither says anything as Clarke’s eyes fall to the ground, feeling inexplicable shame. Which is why she doesn’t catch the softening of the other girl’s gaze, doesn’t realize her eyes are still visibly reddened at the rims. Doesn’t know it’s clear she’s been crying.

Eyes never leaving the ground, she swallows, trying to work up the courage to ask the question that is now both obvious and awaited.

The blonde reflexively holds up the hand with the rectangle of paper clutched in it as though it were a talisman to ward off rejection. Desperately attempting to control the warble in her voice she finally speaks.

“Do you-” her voice cracks embarrassingly and her throat feels like sandpaper. She swallows hard and tries again. “Do you think I could stay here tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet! Now that we're past the backstory part and definitely starting to get into the characters/interactions more, hopefully this chapter was a bit more fun to read!
> 
> Let me know. :)


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